


Beneath Her Blind Eyes

by The_Arkadian



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, and sometimes what you need is something more, sometimes what you need is a friend, somewhat slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 02:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7340764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian seeks a little peace and quiet on sleepless nights in the little ruined chapel - but he is not the only one to find peace there. And perhaps both he and Cullen will find more there....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath Her Blind Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Writing commission for Cypheroftyr.

On reflection, Dorian considered, he really shouldn’t have expected any better. Not from the likes of Magister Halward Pavus.

He leaned against the stone windowsill of the diamond-paned leaded window and stared out into the shadows of the courtyard without really seeing them, the half-drunk glass of wine in his hand temporarily forgotten. Would that the events of the day could be so easily dismissed from his mind; he sighed, and knew he’d be replaying them over and over in his mind obsessively for days to come. He never could let it go - always the nagging question of whether things might have turned out for the better had he chosen his words differently?

Recalling belatedly the glass in his hand, he glanced down at it; the wine was doing nothing for him this evening. He’d told the Inquisitor he’d intended to get very drunk indeed; but at most all it ever did was dull things for a little while. Pushed away the whispers that followed him wherever he went, the restless thoughts in his head, the _what ifs_ and _never weres_ \- and Maker, but those whispers were loud in his head right now. After Redcliffe, he felt sorely in need of a friend in this friendless place where even Skyhold itself seemed impersonal and cold - the stones themselves reflecting the people inside perhaps. The Inquisitor had expressed concern for Dorian, but at the end of the day Dorian Pavus was but one person out of many the Inquisitor dealt with daily.

He downed the rest of the wine and grimaced slightly. No, getting drunk was not working. He needed something else. He pushed away from the windowsill.

The library seemed too close and confined; he decided to head for the garden. At this time of the evening it would be empty, and he could use a little fresh air to clear his head. As his feet took him through the long grass towards his customary seat in the overgrown arbour, he suddenly realised with dismay that someone was already seated there, their back towards him as they leaned over the abandoned chessboard as though pondering a move against an unseen opponent. As Dorian halted in a moment of indecision, he thought that company was really the very last thing he wanted right now. He was tired of having to put on a mask of uncaring indifference - to smile pleasantly and ignore how everyone else obviously felt about him. After Redcliffe, he felt raw and vulnerable, the snide remarks and dirty looks stinging just that little bit more than he cared to handle.

He turned aside before the figure could turn and notice him, and slipped quietly into the small and abandoned little chapel that led off from the garden. The floor was dusty, a few dry leaves blown in to gather around the feet of the statue of Andraste and the old stubs of candles long since burnt out and forgotten.

The chapel had become a sort of sanctuary for Dorian, in a way; it was the last place anyone would think to look for him, and it seemed no-one else ever came here if the dust were anything to go by. The only footprints were his own.

He made his way towards the statue, stepping carefully around the twisted and rusted remains of an old cast-iron chandelier that lay upon the cracked stone floor, fallen long ago from the rotten old timbers of the roof,  and knelt down to brush a few leaves away from the candles. Drawing on a wisp of mana, he lit the candles with a casual flick of his wrist then glanced up at the serene face of Andraste.

Gilt had peeled from her grey stone face long ago, only a few flakes left stubbornly clinging in the carved grooves of her hair to glimmer softly in the candlelight. Ivy wreathed her feet and crept up her skirts which were blotchy and stained in places with lichen.

He rested back onto his heels and contemplated the face of Andraste as her blind eyes gazed sightlessly down upon him, hands uplifted in silent benediction.

Dorian had never been much of a one for all the stiff rigmarole of the Chantry. He had too many bad memories of being forced to endure long sermons on uncomfortably-hard wooden pews in uncomfortable formal attire at his parents’ side, trying not to fidget for fear of his father’s wrath or the promise of his mother’s scathing tongue afterwards. That wasn’t his idea of religion; he preferred to believe in the possibility that something larger than himself existed out there somewhere. “The Maker” was as good a term for that as any, he supposed; at any rate, he derived a little comfort from that thought as he stared up at the figure of Andraste.

“Ah, sorry - I hadn’t realised there was someone already in here....”

The voice broke in on his private little reverie, startling Dorian back into awareness of his surroundings as he turned. Cullen stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the stone doorway whilst the other rubbed uncomfortably at the back of his neck.

“I, ah, didn’t mean to disturb you, I’ll just....”

“It’s alright,” Dorian found himself saying with a small shrug. It seemed inevitable that even here, the illusion of sanctuary would be broken. Just one more thing underlining how much Dorian Pavus _didn’t belong_. He rose to his feet and turned his face aside as he brushed dust from his pants. “I was just leaving. The chapel is all yours, Commander.” He gestured magnanimously towards the dusty and decrepit chapel as he turned to go.

“Wait - you don’t have to - I mean....” Cullen’s voice trailed off as he stared at Dorian. His voice gentled from embarassed bluster to something softer. “Dorian, are you... are you alright?”

“Of course I’m alright; why wouldn’t I be?” scoffed Dorian as he took a step towards the door.

He was halted by Cullen’s hand upon his shoulder and he turned his head to find Cullen’s amber-brown eyes regarding him with quiet concern, and he halted, returning the other man’s stare hesitantly.

“Dorian. What’s wrong?” asked Cullen.

“Nothing. Everything,” replied Dorian, gesturing helplessly as his voice cracked on the end syllable. “Oh, Maker, what’s the use?”

He turned and dropped his gaze to the dusty stone floor, unable to face staring into those gentle eyes.

“The Inquisitor said you’d both just returned from Redcliffe,” said Cullen slowly as Dorian made his way over to the one remaining pew that hadn’t yet fallen to rot and slowly sat. The Tevinter Altus nodded.

“It was... my father,” he replied slowly.

Cullen followed him and lowered himself gingerly down onto the seat next to Dorian. The wooden pew creaked a little alarmingly, but held as he settled his weight slowly onto it. Cullen exhaled the breath he’d unconsciously been holding, then hesitantly reached his hand out. He had a moment of indecision, then he gently laid his hand on Dorian’s knee.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

Dorian stared at Cullen’s hand in dull surprise, then turned to stare at Cullen and found that warm amber gaze upon him once more.

He couldn’t bring himself to tell Cullen everything. It was too fresh, too raw; the pain still stinging and leaving him flayed open and vulnerable. After what he’d been through, to lay himself further bare like that - to _anyone_ was more than he thought he could handle. He slowly shook his head. “No. But thank you anyway.” He managed to summon a small smile.

“Well, whatever it is, it’s clear it’s upset you,” replied Cullen. “I can’t imagine what might bring you here, of all places, at this hour of the night.” He sighed, then squeezed Dorian’s knee gently. “Dorian, I... I’m not going to pry, but I want you to know that you’re not alone here, you have a place where you’re wanted and valued. You’ve got friends here.”

“Have I?” asked Dorian, lifting his gaze to Cullen. His storm-grey eyes were reddened but dry as he regarded the blond man somewhat bleakly. “Do I really have friends here, Commander?” Then his gaze softened a little into wistfulness as he gave a little lopsided smile. “Are you, then, my friend, Commander?”

“I would be, if you would like?” offered the other man. “And... it’s Cullen.”

Dorian _did_ smile at that. “I think I _would_ like that... Cullen,” he answered honestly.

Cullen returned his smile, and Dorian couldn’t help but notice the little crinkles near his eyes. For the first time since laying his eyes on his father in Redcliffe, he felt himself start to relax a little; and suddenly he was aware of his almost bone-crushing weariness.

He excused himself and took his leave of Cullen, returning to his own room where he undressed and crawled into his bed, yawning. His last thought before he drifted off to sleep was to wonder what had had Cullen awake at that hour.

 

*****

 

The next time Dorian encountered Cullen in the little chapel, he arrived to find the Commander bent upon one knee, his gauntleted hands gripping his sword before him, his head bowed, murmuring fervent prayers softly. Dorian halted, unwilling to interrupt, but the slight scuff of his boot upon the worn stones betrayed him. He grimaced slightly as Cullen shifted, then glanced back over his shoulder.

“Dorian?” he asked softly, and Dorian shrugged one shoulder as he regarded the former templar apologetically.

“I can see you are... well... don’t mind me, I’ll let myself out,” said Dorian as he turned to leave.

“No, stay!” blurted out Cullen as he lifted a hand towards the Altus then blinked as though his own reaction had startled him. “That is - I mean... _please_ ,” he amended, quietly.

“Alright,” said Dorian after a moment, and turned back towards Cullen as the Commander got to his feet, wincing slightly as his knees protested audibly.

“Maker, I’m not getting any younger,” groaned Cullen as he sheathed his sword then leaned cautiously against the wooden pew, eyeing it distrustfully for a moment before he was satisfied it wasn’t about to give way beneath him. He rubbed the back of his neck then glanced up at Dorian. “I, ah, gather you couldn’t sleep either then?”

“Regrettably, alas, no,” agreed Dorian. “I didn’t mean to disturb you though, Commander.”

“Cullen,” he corrected absently. “No, you didn’t disturb me; to be honest, I was finding my own thoughts to be pretty lonely company.” He shrugged ruefully.

“Little comfort in prayer then?” remarked Dorian shrewdly, and was rewarded by a short bark of humourless laughter.

“Not so much, it seems, these days,” Cullen confessed. “And you? I must admit, I’d never have pegged you for the praying sort. This is the last place I would expect to find you, to be honest.”

“And yet, here I am,” replied Dorian with a lopsided smile. He moved towards the pew slowly. “There’s a peace here that I find restful. Maker knows, there’s little enough of _that_ to be found these days.”

“Which - peace, or rest?” asked Cullen.

“Both, or either - take your pick,” answered Dorian as he sat; after a moment, Cullen joined him on the hard wooden bench.

“I’ll take what I can get of either,” shrugged Cullen.

Dorian leaned back against the pew and regarded Cullen thoughtfully. “So, what is it that keeps the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces awake at such a lonely hour of the night?”

Cullen grimaced and glanced away, his hand creeping back up to rub the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Too much, if truth be told,” he said softly. “Regrets, mostly.”

“Ah,” said Dorian quietly as he watched the way Cullen shifted on the pew, the wood creaking in protest. There was something about the way the Commander seemed almost to curl in upon himself that made Dorian want to reach out to him. “That, I can understand and sympathise with,” he said, restraining the urge to move closer. This was the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, after all - and a former templar to boot. Despite his previous offer of friendship, Dorian was uncertain just how far that friendship would extend.

“Can you?” asked Cullen, glancing back at the mage. Dorian met his gaze, Cullen’s amber-brown eyes darkened by sadness and remembered pain.

“We’ve all said and done things that have come to haunt us afterwards,” replied the Altus. “Maker knows, my own mistakes have kept me awake many a night.” He sighed, thinking on Redcliffe.

“There are things I’ve done, said... Dorian, I am - am not a good man,” said Cullen hesitantly. “The things I saw - what I did in Kirkwall....”

Dorian’s hand upon Cullen’s arm checked his words; Cullen’s head jerked up as he blinked at Dorian.

“Cullen, we are not in Kirkwall now,” Dorian said gently. “Whatever it is you did, it is plain you regret it, and I do not think you would repeat your past mistakes, hmm?”

“No,” agreed Cullen. “No, I would not.” He sighed as he sat back, running a hand over his face wearily. Dorian regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then upon impulse leaned forward and laid a hand lightly upon Cullen’s knee, much as the blond man had done that first time they had met in the chapel like this.

“Cullen, a wise man reminded me recently that I am not alone here in Skyhold and that I have friends here. Might I point out that you, also, have friends?” He let his voice drop a little. “One of whom is here right now?”

Cullen stared down at Dorian’s hand upon his knee and then, after a moment, he covered it with his own. “We’re friends then?” asked Cullen.

“I believe that was your offer?” smiled Dorian. “It goes both ways you know. You offered to listen if I needed to talk. I’m offering to do the same, if you’ll permit me?” As Cullen lifted his head, Dorian quirked one eyebrow up in mute query; after a moment, Cullen’s lips curved into a lopsided smile of his own.

“A wise man, huh?” he chuckled wryly. “I don’t know about that so much.” He patted Dorian’s hand as he seemed to visibly relax a little.

“A wise man would accept the offer,” prompted Dorian with a grin. Cullen actually laughed at that, and Dorian was struck by the way the blond Ferelden’s face seemed to light up, his amber eyes warm and mellow.

It didn’t escape his notice either that Cullen’s hand still rested warmly over his.

 

***

 

They ran into each other several times over the next few months. Sometimes the chapel was empty when Dorian retreated there on a sleepless night; sometimes Cullen was there before him, or else would arrive shortly after. Dorian could not have said just when it was that he began to find himself actually looking forward to Cullen being there.

It made living in this cold, unfriendly place just that little more tolerable.

Dorian hadn’t spoken of these little night-time meetings to anyone else, and he was fairly certain nor had Cullen. But gradually Dorian began to find his sleep was a little easier at night. He needed the refuge of the chapel less, though he visited it as often as he had before. The peace he found there now was of a different kind; one that came in quiet, gentle laughter and the warm regard of soft brown eyes; scarred lips smiling in welcome. Friendship.

When the letter came, Dorian could only stare at it blankly, feeling a queer sort of numbness inside where there ought to be... _something_.

“I’m so sorry, Dorian,” said the Inquisitor. “I know you and Felix were close.”

“Thank you,” he replied automatically, the habit of politeness in the face of terrible personal adversity deeply ingrained through long years of practice. “It was not unexpected. We both knew what the outcome would be.” He shrugged, smiled politely, mask firmly in place even though he could feel it slowly begin to crack inside.

It was mid-morning, not night, but Dorian found himself walking through the garden towards the small chapel and its cool seclusion away from prying eyes. The garden was empty, and he was grateful for that small mercy as he let himself inside the chapel, lighting the candles without conscious thought - the practiced flick of his wrist second-nature by now.

He lost track of time as he sat upon the wooden pew, staring at the statue of Andraste without really seeing it, the letter still clutched in one hand as he waited.

“Dorian, I just heard the news - Maker, I’m so sorry,” exclaimed Cullen as he entered the chapel; Dorian was dully surprised to realise it was night; what he could see of the garden beyond Cullen’s form was in shadow and dark, lit only very dimly by fleeting moonlight.

Cullen pulled the door closed behind him and swiftly came to join him on the pew; Dorian held out the letter wordlessly, and Cullen stared at him in worry before he took it and scanned it swiftly.

“It was the blight of course,” said Dorian quietly, inwardly glad his voice didn’t shake. “We always knew it was only a matter of time. I worked furiously for two whole years to try and discover a way to halt its progress, to find a cure, but I think I only managed to postpone the inevitable. Alexius spent much of his fortune bringing healers from all corners of the Imperium and upon research to find a cure but... well.”

Cullen was regarding him with almost puppyish eyes, and Dorian felt his tight control upon the mask unexpectedly slipping, crumbling. The Commander’s quiet concern was succeeding in rattling the foundations of the walls he’d built and maintained so meticulously for so long.

“Dorian....”

“Don’t,” said Dorian as he gritted his teeth. “Don’t ask me if I’m alright. I’m very much _not_ alright and I -”

“Hush,” murmured Cullen as he slid closer and let a hand come to rest comfortingly upon Dorian’s shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly as the mage bit back a sob. Dorian could feel the last fragments of the mask he’d so carefully crafted steadily crumbling away under the gentle concern of those amber brown eyes.

“You’re shaking,” murmured Cullen softly.

“The cold,” Dorian said, dissembling without thinking.

“Liar,” replied Cullen, though the word was without heat and his scarred lips were curving into a small smile as the warm hand upon Dorian’s shoulder slid up to the side of Dorian’s neck, Cullen’s fingers curling around to brush gently at the nape of his neck before Cullen tugged him very gently closer with only the lightest of pressure.

The last vestiges of Dorian’s self-control vanished and he let himself fall forward to bury his face in the ruff of fur adorning the collar of Cullen’s mantle as he gave in to his grief, clutching at the fabric as he sobbed raggedly. He felt Cullen’s hand slide from his neck up into his hair even as the Commander’s other arm wrapped around Dorian’s shoulders.

“Shh, it’s OK, I’ve got you,” murmured Cullen softly. “Don’t try to talk, just let it out.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dorian noted with dull surprise that whilst he ought to have been mortified at his complete loss of control in front of the Commander, all he actually felt was... relief. Simple, unadorned, naked relief that for once he didn’t have to wear the mask or hide how he truly felt - that with Cullen he could be open with his pain in a way he would never do anywhere or with anyone else - not even the Inquisitor, who had been there at Redcliffe. Cullen hadn’t been _there_ , didn’t _know_ what had happened - and it didn’t matter; he was here, and he accepted Dorian in a way that only one other person ever truly had - and Felix was dead.

He lifted his head and found himself staring into Cullen’s eyes. Then his hands moved of their own volition, lifting to cradle Cullen’s startled face before Dorian crushed his lips to those scarred lips and kissed the Commander.

Cullen stiffened, and it finally filtered through to Dorian’s brain exactly what he was doing. He pulled away hastily, stammering apologies which were cut off as Cullen pulled Dorian back against him and claimed the mage’s lips in a deep kiss of his own.

Dorian’s eyes fluttered closed as he moaned breathily, the sound swallowed up by Cullen’s kiss. The Commander only finally reluctantly pulled away when they both needed air.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” began Dorian, but broke off as Cullen began to shake with laughter.

“Dorian, you don’t have to apologise,” he chuckled softly. “It’s quite alright. I kissed you back, didn’t I?”

“What are you saying?” asked Dorian.

“That depends on you,” replied Cullen. “Was that a spur-of-the-moment thing, or...?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian admitted with uncustomary candour.

“You were waiting for me, weren’t you?” said Cullen gently as he lifted a thumb to wipe away a stray tear that still clung to Dorian’s eyelashes. “All this time?”

“Today or in general?” asked Dorian quietly.

“Either. Both,” smiled Cullen.

“I rather think perhaps I was,” replied Dorian faintly. “So... what happens now?”

“That rather depends on you,” replied Cullen. “But I know I’m looking forward to finding out - if you are, too?”

 “Yes,” Dorian nodded. “Yes, I rather think I am.”

 For once, there were no masks, only open honest truth - and perhaps something more.

They kissed again, beneath the benevolent blind eyes of Andraste.

 

_~ Fin ~_


End file.
